They Did Not Die In Vain
by RainWillMakeTheFlowersGrow
Summary: Character deaths, only rated T because it centers around the deaths of characters. Jean Prouvaire, Gavroche, Eponine, Combeferre, and more if you specify which character you would like. I'm sorry for the feels, mes amis...i really am. They did not die in vain, because we will always remember them. Rest in peace, all you characters which we love.
1. Jean Prouvaire

Bonjour Readers! So, this is the start of my little angst ficlet thing. They are all going to be as true to the Brick as possible! So, if you think I'm not being true to the Brick, tell me! I'm starting with Jean Prouvaire. Comment who you want next- it doesn't have to be a barricade boy I decided. I hope it's good. It's probably not, but, oh well, just constructive criticisms, no flames please…

"Fall back or I blow the barricade!" Marius' voice shouted from a few paces down. I hadn't even noticed that he had come after all.

I looked up as the officer he was talking to scoffed, "and yourself also?"

"And myself also." He lowered the torch to the barrel of gunpowder.

"Fall back!" The National Guard scattered. I was about to thank Marius when I was grabbed roughly and yanked backwards, back away from our little barricade. In the confusion, I did not even cry out. I had no idea what was going on. The world swirled with color, seeming more vivid than before. Colors that seemed almost too real, as if today were just an ordinary June day. Back, back to behind the lines of the National Guard.

My hands were tied roughly behind my back. Hands, that, previously, had never hurt anyone. A poet's hands. They used their bayonetted guns to shove me forward until I was facing several of them. Their guns were pointed at me and the realization that I was going to die finally sank in. They cocked their weapons and all I could think of is that I hoped that we did overcome. I hoped we would win. Don't cry. Don't cry, I thought. There's nothing you can do about it now. Eyes brimming with tears (curse them!), I looked at the firing squad.

« Vive la France ! Vive l'avenir ! »

Crack. Pain exploded for a second, then nothing.


	2. Gavroche

Here's Gavroche, the bravest eleven-year-old ever. You asked for it. Pls don't kill me….Oh! and by the way. I am now henceforth to be known as Marseillais! My other half is Psycho. But in Dear Fanfiction Writers, we honestly split it exactly even and random, only she is in charge of uploading them. But this is Marseillais. (pronounce: Mar-sih-lai. It's French. It's the French national anthem, La Marseillais. I am obsessed with that song. ALLONS ENFANTS DE LA PATRIE, LE JOUR DE LA GLOIRE EST ARRIVÉ! Ok that's all. Go read and cry now. And let me just say, kudos to whomever did the whole Courfeyrac/ Gavroche thing, because it is TOTALLY in the book. And it makes it all the more sad and real. -Marseillais (NOT PSYCHO THATS THE ITALICIZED ONE)

"Another quarter of an hour of this success, and there will not be any cartridges left in the barricade."

I had overheard Enjolras talking to Bossuet. This was my chance! The chance to save the barricade and prove how much of a threat even a gamin could be to the National Guard. I dashed inside the Corinthe, grabbing a bottle-basket. I started out with the bodies closest to the barricade. Quietly, that was the way to do it. Slipping easily between the low wall and the side of the wine shop, I darted about, removing the full cartridge-boxes of the National Guard's dead.

"What are you doing there?" someone hissed. I turned around to see Courfeyrac standing just behind me.

I looked him in the eyes. "I'm filling my basket, citizen."

He looked at me as if I was blind. "Don't you see the grape-shot?"

I laughed off the concern in his voice, masking any in my own. "Well," I said cockily, "it is raining. What then?"

I continued to go further away from the small protection of the first wall of the barricade. No longer trying to conceal his worry, Courfeyrac shouted, "come in!"

"Instanter!" And I plunged into the street.

About twenty or so bodies were strewn about. That meant lots of cartridges for the barricade. And there was a lot of smoke, so no one would be able to see me. Of this I was sure. The first seven or so cartridges were easy. I went on my stomach, crawled, and did whatever it took to get the ammunition that we so dearly needed.

There was one, a corporal, that had a powder flask. Smiling, I said to myself, "for thirst!"

Just then, the smoke cleared considerably. I was relieving a sergeant of his cartridges (he wouldn't need them anymore, but the folks at the barricade would) when he jumped! A bullet struck him.

"Fichtre! They are killing my dead men for me." I laughed at my joke. They wouldn't hit me! Just the already dead!

Another bullet made sparks fly near my feet. Antother overturned my basket, the nerve!

I stood up straight and put my hands on my hips. « On est laid à Nanterre, c'est la faute à Voltaire et bête à Palaiseau, c'est la faute à Rousseau ! (Men are ugly at Nanterre, it is the fault of Voltaire and dull at Palaiseau, it is the fault of Rousseau)» I sang.

I picked up my basket and put all the spilt cartridges back, disregarding further bullets. They couldn't hit me. They just couldn't! Another missed by inches. I laughed. Didn't they catch on? I wasn't going to be hit! To aggravate them more, I continued singing.

« Je ne suis pas notaire, c'est la faute à Voltaire; je suis un petit oiseau, c'est la faute à Rousseau ! (I am not a notary, it is the fault of Voltaire I am a little bird, it is the fault of Rousseau !)»

Another. Les bêtes*! They couldn't hit me! I sang again. « Joie set mon caractère, c'est la faute à Voltaire misère est mon trousseau, c'est la faute à Rousseau ! (Joy is my character, it is the fault of Voltaire; misery is my trousseau, it is the fault of Rosseau!) »

They kept shooting, and I kept singing. They shot again and again, always missing. Hairs' breadths, I laughed. They just couldn't hit me! I sprang up, fell back, and danced among the dead. Laughing, I put my thumb on my nose just to snub them.

All while grabbing cartridges for my friends at the barricade, I darted out among them, getting closer and closer. I danced with the dead, I danced with the bullets, I ran about, I laughed.

Suddenly, it wasn't just a game. They hit me! How? I was invincible, on top of the world! My shoulder. I couldn't stand. I staggered. I was felled. I sat down, but did not cry out. I heard the barricade behind me cry out, though. I looked at the rows of the Guard and raised both my hands in song. One last couplet.

Defiantly, I sang the song. I was shaking, it hurt. « Je...suis...tombe par terre…, c'est la faute à Voltaire….le nez…dans…le ruisseau, c'est…la faute…à- (I have fallen to the earth, it is the fault of Voltaire with my nose in the gutter, it is the fault of-) »


	3. Eponine

**Bonjour Readers! I'm sorry, I haven't forgotten you, I'm just going to be reeeeaaaallllyyyy slow at updating until barricade day or so. Sorry 'bout that. But anyway...voilà. You asked for it...sorry it's so much like the brick; I didn't want to mess anything up as Éponine is such a complex character and her death is absolutely heart-wrenching. Enjoy...um...well...dont kill me at least.  
-Marseillaise **

"Monsieur Marius!" the man turned about, clearly not seeing me. I repeated my cry, this time adding, "At your feet."

I dragged myself painfully over to where he was, disappointed.

"You do not recognize me?" I breathed.

"No."

"Éponine."

At this he bent down and said quickly, "How come you here? What are you doing here?" He sounded distressed.

I smiled slightly and said, "I am dying." It was the truth.

He seemed not to understand. "You are wounded! Wait, I shall carry you into the room! they will attend to you there. Is it serious? How must I take hold of you in order not to hurt you? Where do you suffer? Help! Mon Dieu! But why did you come hither?"

He didn't understand. He tried to raise me, and in doing so brushed my injured hand. I could not refrain from crying out.

"have I hurt you?"

"Just a little." _A lot. More than you will ever know._

"But I only touched your hand."

Slowly, I raised my arm so he could see the blackened hole in my hand.

"What is the matter with your hand?" he asked. Was he blind?

"It is pierced."

"Pierced?" Worried, now.

"Yes."

"With what?"

"A bullet." _For you._

"How?"

"Did you see a gun aimed at you?"

"Yes, and a hand stopping it."

I closed my eyes and smiled slightly. "That hand was mine."

Marius shuddered. "What madness," he said, "Poor child! But so much the better, if that is all, it is nothing, let me carry you to a bed. They will dress your wound, one does not die of a pierced hand." He sounded relieved, now.

But he still did not understand. "The bullet…it transverse my hand, but exited through my back. It is useless to remove me from this spot. I will tell you how you can care for me better than any surgeon. Sit down near me on this stone."

He complied, and I laid my head on his knees, the most comfortable bed ever known to me. "Oh!" I murmured. "How good this is! how comfortable this is! There; I no longer suffer." Was it a lie? I was in physical pain. But to be there, to have my head upon M. Marius…I remained silent, contemplating.

Then, with difficulty, I turned my head and loked sadly up at him. "Do you know what , Monsieur marius? It puzzled me because you entered that garden, it was stupid, because it was I that showed you that house, and then, I ought to have said to myself, that a man like you— " I realized the truth. But I would not, could not, blame him for it. I closed and opened my eyes, which were stinging with tears. With love. With pain. With guilt. I smiled and whispered, "You thought me ugly, didn't you!"

"You see, you are lost! Now, no one can get out of the barricade. It was I who led you here—" how I hated myself! I kept rambling on. "you are going to die, I would count on it. And yet, when I saw them aiming at you, I put my hand to the muzzle of the gun. How queer it is! But it was because I wanted to die before you. When I received the bullet, I dragged myself here, no one saw me, no one picked me up. I was waiting to die for you. I said, 'So he is not coming!' Oh, if only you knew. I bit my blouse, I suffered so! But now, with you, I am well. Do you remember when I came to you on the boulevard near the washerwoman? The day I entered your chamber and observed myself in your mirror? How the birds sang! That day was long ago. You gave me a hundred sous, and I said to you, 'I don't want your money, Monsieur.' I hope you picked it up your coin? You are not rich. I did not think to tell you to pick it up. The sun was shining bright; it was not cold. Do you remember, Monsieur Marius? But everybody is going to die here." I whispered the last part. But it was true. They were.

Marius looked at me, as if I were mad, but it looked as if his heart was broken. There was compassion like I had never known in his gaze.

Suddenly the pain came again, in waves. "Oh!" I said. "It is coming again, I am stifling!" I bit my blouse, feeling myself stiffen in the effort not to cry out.

I heard a voice singing,

"_En voyant Lafayette,_

_Le genderme repete:_

_Sauvons nous! Sauvons nous! Sauvons nous!"_

I listened and murmured to Marius, "My brother is here. He must not see me. He would scold me."

"Your brother?" he inquired. "Who is your brother?"

I smiled. Gavroche had long since run away, but I still remembered him. "That little fellow. The one who is singing." And then, I knew. I felt it. I was to die soon. But he must not leave! "Oh! don't go away. It will not be long now." He knew what I mean.

Painfully, I forced myself almost upright, clinging to Marius. I looked into his eyes—his eyes—they were so teary—and, guiltily, I rasped, "Listen."

He nodded.

"I do not wish to play you a trick. I have a letter in my pocket for you. I was told to post it. I did not. I wanted to keep it from you. But perhaps this would anger you when we meet again presently? Take your letter."

Convulsively, I grabbed his hand, but I seemed to no longer feel any suffering. Gently, I put his hand inside my blouse-pocket, where there was a letter. "Take it," I whispered. When he did, I felt content. I was dying with him.

"Now for my trouble, promise me—" I stopped. He must.

"What?"

"Promise me!"

"I promise."

"Promise to give me a kiss on my brow. I shall feel it."

He nodded, and I dropped my head, closing my eyes. He must have thought me already gone, but there was one last thing I had to say. Using the last of my strength, I breathed,

"And by the way, Monsieur Marius, I do believe I was a little bit in love with you."

Somewhere, I thought I heard people singing.


	4. Combeferre

Eep! Sorry, I haven't done one of these in a long time! So, I know I was doing these Brick-based, but I had a request to do one from Combeferre's point of view in the movie, at the top of the Musain (it should be the Corinthe, shame on Tom Hooper…Jk, he is amazing I could never do that and even though it was the Musain not the Corinthe it's okay). He in the Brick died an incredibly sad death, too…so here are both. Double feels, I know. Sorry. "[Combeferre] had only the time to cast a glance to heaven when he expired."

First, La Brique version.

The center of the barricade is sustained, barely. I fight alongside Joly, Bossuet, and Feuilly. The grape-shot rains down everywhere, a rain of death, and our cartridges are running short. I think I have three, maybe four left. To my left, I hGrasping a man's arm, I twist it so that his chest was exposed. I shoved my bayonet into it, not even stopping to think. He would have done the same had our roles been reversed. Still. Human life. It was a horrible thing, what we were doing. It was inconceivable, and yet here we were. I looked away, and found myself facing Feuilly.

The worker is bloodied, covered in dirt, and yet his face is still the same. It seems as though it shouldn't be, as if his face should be marred or some demonic rendition. Bitterly, he says loudly through the fighting, "can anyone understand those men who had promised to join us, and taken an oath to aid us, had pledged to honor it, and who are our generals, and who abandon us!"

I nod. "There are men who observe the rules of honor as they do stars- from a distance."

Feuilly opens his mouth, when suddenly he looks down to his chest and turns pale. He makes a whimpering noise, and I see the red metallic bayonet, run gruesomely through the lower left side of his chest. It is bleeding profusely, and he falls to the ground. He is not dead. Looking just beyond him, I see the guard, but surely, surely he will allow me this, to be able to carriy a wounded friend into the remains of the Corinthe.

Taking the step necessary to reach him, I slip slightly. It is a pool of blood. Looking down, I see the remains of Bossuet. His whole body has been blown apart by the cannonballs, and I cannot bear to look at my friend. Disregarding my broken bayonet to land next to him, I bend down. One arm under his legs, and the other supporting my torso, I straighten.

The guard picks up my discarded bayonet. I realize what he is about to do and stand up fully, thinking he is about to finish off Feuilly. No. Quickly lunging, he puts it through my chest once, twice, three times. It is not painful, and I have no control anymore. All I can do is glance up, to be sure that I die seeing the sky.

Next, Le Vidéo. I did this in past tense because…Honestly, it's my favorite to write in.

Enjolras rushed past, supporting Jean Prouvaire. I joined, dragging the boy along. He was only eighteen; he didn't deserve to die with the rest of us. If anyone was to be saved, it was him. Grabbing his arm, I pulled him along. Stumbling, he suddenly stopped running and I looked to see a guardsman standing where he had been, clutching a bloodied sword. Jehan lay at his feet, unmoving. Enjolras pulled me along, sprinting to the Musain. He grabbed Courfeyrac, Bahorel, and Joly, who seemed to be the only ones left. As we got to the doorframe that offered some meager protection, I yelled, "the doors! We have to barricade the doors!"

Enjolras nodded, grabbing a bottle of wine from a crate in the rubble, throwing it at the guards and shouting, "throw everything! Sell yourselves dearly!"

Bahorel bent down, grabbing a large stone. He flung it out towards the oncoming guards. As he bent down to another, there was a flurry of motion, and amongst the noise I heard a nearby gunshot. Bahorel fell, a bullet through his heart.

I pulled Joly and Courfeyrac along, inside what remained of the café. Enjolras didn't follow, but I couldn't stay for him. Through the smoke, he used an axe from somewhere to demolish the stairs we were going up.

I saw Marius, hazily, go down, and another man pull him off. Another one down. No one would survive, this, I realized.

Courfeyrac, Joly, and I reached the top of the Musain. Breathing hard, Enjolras followed. We edged back through the tables, Enjolras standing in front of us, determined to go down first and shield his friends. I held a pistol, pointed at the entrance. Half-shielding Joly with my arm and body, we prepared for them to come. I couldn't suppress a little whimper at the thought of our deaths, at the thought that in the grand scheme of things it didn't matter. We heard sounds of guns being readied, and assumed they were coming. I looked right ahead, towards the doorway.

No one expected them to come through the floor.

Joly and Courfeyrac were killed immediately, and I was fatally injured, I knew. Lying on the floor, I saw Enjolras standing, alone. And then, there was nothing.


End file.
